


And Sherlock Makes Three

by Englishtutor



Series: The Other Doctor Watson [8]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Acceptance, Friendship, Gen, Marriage Proposal, Mycroft meets Mary
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-13
Updated: 2016-03-15
Packaged: 2018-05-26 13:45:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,669
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6241672
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Englishtutor/pseuds/Englishtutor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Sherlock becomes alarmed at the change Mary Morstan has made in John.   With spoilers from ACD's book "The Sign of Four".</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. One to Spare

**Author's Note:**

> One thing I love about this show is the way it remains true to the original stories and characters. In that vein, this story contains paraphrased dialogue from Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s book “The Sign of Four”. The lifted dialogue is in italics.

He leaned over his microscope, trying to ignore the maelstrom of chaotic activity going on around him. His flatmate had clearly lost all sense of reason. John Watson had arrived home early from the clinic and had immediately begun rushing about without paying any attention to Sherlock whatsoever. And now, he was singing in the shower. Singing!

Sherlock had never heard John sing before. Why should he sing? Of what use was it? On the contrary, the cacophony was so distracting that Sherlock was entirely unable to concentrate on his work. How could John possibly be thinking about anything at all with such noise going on? Clearly, he was not. Sherlock shuddered at the idea of non-thought.

Heedlessly, John charged out of the bathroom and up the stairs to his room wrapped only in a towel. Sherlock sighed. Was this the action of a combat-trained army officer? Careless! Now there was the unmistakable sound of objects being dropped and/or knocked onto the floor in John’s room. Normally, John’s movements were precise and fairly graceful, but lately he had grown clumsy, as if he were not really paying proper attention to what he was doing. Could John continue to help Sherlock in The Work if he was going to make a habit of this thoughtless, preoccupied behavior? 

A musky scent preceded John down the stairs. Cologne? John knew better than to clog up Sherlock’s sensitive nose with such superfluous olfactory information. A detective needed his senses clear—sight, sound, touch, AND smell. What was John thinking? Sherlock dredged up a half-deleted comment John had made that morning as he left for work. Hmm. Oh, right. John had planned a special evening with Mary tonight. 

Mary WAS the problem, wasn’t she? John had been fairly normal before he’d met Mary, and then after he started seeing her seriously he’d begun exhibiting this extraordinary behavior. It was disturbing. John’s priorities had gone askew. The Work was apparently fallen to second on John’s list.

“How do I look?” John’s voice sounded nervous. John was never nervous. More evidence that he was simply not himself anymore. 

“She’s seen you before, John,” Sherlock informed him helpfully, not deigning to look up from his microscope. “Do you really think a singular instance of extravagant personal grooming will make her more likely to accept your proposal?” Surely logic would calm John’s absurd case of nerves.

John chuckled. “I suppose not. But could you at least tell me if my tie’s on straight?”

Long-suffering Sherlock dragged his attention from his work and looked at John, who was resplendent in his best suit and tie; hair perfect; shoes, still in hand, highly polished. How did John look? “Your heart rate is too high. So is your respiratory rate. Your neck and back muscles are tense, pulling the scar tissue in your shoulder and causing a mild ache, although it’s not painful enough for you to have considered taking a pain reliever for it. And your tie is three point five millimeters from center.” 

John adjusted his tie. “I should know better than to ask you how I look. You see everything and observe nothing of importance,” he grinned mischievously. Sitting down, he proceeded to put on his shoes.

Sherlock felt he must do something to save his friend—his only friend—from further disintegration from a once highly-intelligent and useful assistant to a sentimental puddle of goo. It was too bad, really. Sherlock had actually found Mary Morstan to be a perfectly charming young woman. It was obviously John’s own fault, not Mary’s, for allowing himself to come apart like this as a result of his feelings for her. Perhaps it was not too late.

“I have to tell you, John, that I cannot congratulate you on your decision,” Sherlock began.

John’s cheerful face fell, and he sat holding one shoe in his hand. “What do you mean? You can’t say you dislike Mary. I know you approve of her. You two were thick as thieves, dissecting that cadaver together last week.”

“I have nothing against Mary at all,” Sherlock assured him. “In fact, she could be very useful in The Work, with a decided genius of her own. No, it’s you who are the problem. You’re . . . distracted. Preoccupied.”

John smiled. “I expect I am,” he admitted, returning to the task of putting his shoe on.

“Love is an emotional thing, and whatever is emotional is opposed to that true cold reason which I place above all things. I could never marry, myself, for fear I might bias my judgment,” Sherlock continued.

“Oh, god, I can only imagine!” John exclaimed fervently and chuckled. “Look, I know I’ve been off my game recently, but I trust my judgment will survive this ordeal. Once our plans have been sorted out, I imagine I’ll feel less jittery, and then I’ll get back to being ‘useful’ again.”

“You’re determined to entangle yourself emotionally, then? Well, so be it. I’ll just have to reconcile myself to it,” Sherlock sighed magnanimously. 

John laughed again. “Yes, you will, thank you very much! Assuming she’ll have me, we’ll be married very soon, I hope. I know it doesn’t look it now, but really, Sherlock, she makes me better. Because love is NOT just an emotional thing. It’s a positive action.”

“We could have been attacked several times over while you were in the shower, and you’d never have heard it coming over the infernal noise you were making!” Sherlock pointed out.

But John, distractedly emotional John, was too far gone to take such things seriously. He just snorted, amused. “If ninja assassins start climbing in through the windows, I promise to stop singing immediately.” Then he sobered, seeing his friend’s concern. “Look, Sherlock, I see what you’re saying. We do dangerous work, and I’ve been kidnapped and almost killed frequently enough to know that you’re right; we need to be careful. But I can’t live my life in fear. I’ve found a good thing. I only hope she thinks so, too. Try to wish me luck tonight, will you?”

Sherlock gave an almost motionless nod and watched John snatch up his keys and wallet from the coffee table. “Look, I’ve got tomorrow off and so does Mary. Don’t expect me home until day after. And if you text me for any reason that isn’t utterly dire, I’ll turn off my phone. Understand?”

Turn off his phone! John’s mental state was clearly highly compromised, to even consider such an action. “Define dire,” he demanded.

“Let me put it this way: if you aren’t texting from your death bed, you soon will be,” John grinned fondly. “See you later.” And he was gone.

Sherlock listened to John’s footsteps going down the stairs. Clearly Mrs. Hudson had been listening, too, for she opened her door and accosted him on his way out. 

“Don’t you look wonderful! So handsome!” she exclaimed. “Here, just let me. . . .” the sound of fingers brushing cloth indicated a fussy brushing off of lint. “There, now you’re perfect. I’m so happy for you, dear.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Hudson. Wait, are you crying?” John asked, concerning filling his voice.

“Oh, I’m just being a silly old woman. Don’t mind me. I’m just so pleased for you. Mary is a lovely girl. And she’s a very lucky one, too,” Mrs. Hudson sniffed. 

John left, and Sherlock spent a few minutes deducing whether that last sound he’d heard was Mrs. Hudson kissing John’s cheek or John kissing Mrs. Hudson’s. His reverie was interrupted by Mrs. Hudson herself, climbing up the stairs laden with her old, red tea tray.

“Isn’t it exciting?” she asked breathlessly, setting the tray down in front of Sherlock. “I love weddings! They make such a lovely couple, too.”

“Your own marriage was a disaster, Mrs. Hudson. How could you wish your friend to be afflicted with one?” Sherlock said dismally. Mrs. Hudson swatted him on the arm.

“Stop that! I made a mistake. I married too quickly, and didn’t choose carefully. You know perfectly well that John would never do the awful things my husband did. And Mary will never hurt John, you can see it in her face. They’ll be lovely together.”

Sherlock sipped his tea, but he didn’t enjoy it. He was meant to protect John. “Friends protect people.” Isn’t that what John always said? But how did one protect a friend from himself? And yet, clearly John would be devastated if Mary should refuse him. How did one protect a friend from heartbreak? Sherlock was torn between wishing John luck as he had requested and wishing the entire situation would just go away.

“They’ll have such pretty babies, too,” Mrs. Hudson prattled on. Sherlock was horrified. This was a development he’d not considered. 

“Surely not,” he murmured.

Mrs. Hudson didn’t hear. “Of course, they’ll all be blondes, won’t they? With John so blond, and Mary even blonder. And blue eyes, all around. What a picture they’ll make, walking down the street together. I always wanted children, myself.”

Sherlock shuddered. He was glad when Mrs. Hudson went back downstairs and he could immerse himself in his work once again. He worked until he could hardly hold his eyes open, and then he flopped face-down onto the sofa and dropped into a nightmare-ridden sleep filled with blond, blue-eyed babies crawling heedlessly all over the flat.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

 

 

The squeaky seventh step jerked him awake. He didn’t move, listening carefully. It was not John’s step. Not heavy enough. Not Mrs. Hudson’s arthritic tread. Not stealthy, though. Whoever the intruder was, he or she did not mind being heard. The door opened. Sherlock lifted his nose out of the sofa cushion far enough to get a whiff of the intruder’s scent without being seen to be awake. Surely that was Mary. But why?

Swiftly, the thoughts flew through Sherlock’s mind. John and Mary were meant to spend the day together, to celebrate their engagement. They both had today off work. Perhaps Mary had turned John down. Why should she wish to be married, after all? She had a good life for herself. But no, she was a caring person, and she and John were, at the very least, good friends. A friend would not be happy about hurting her friend’s feelings, and she was . . . humming? No, singing, (more singing!) softly, under her breath. A cheerful song, too, not a dirge. So, she and John were now affianced. But where was John? He had been too excited about his plans for this day to have abandoned them easily. Was he on call at the clinic? That must be it—he was called in to work. Sherlock surprised himself by feeling sorry for what must have been a great disappointment for his friend.

But all that did not explain why Mary was in HIS flat and not her own. Singing. And, apparently, rattling pots and pans. Sherlock could not remember John ever making such a din when he was working in the kitchen. He heard the refrigerator door open, and then Mary giggled. John never giggled when he looked into the refrigerator. John sighed. A lot. Sometimes he yelled, but most of the time, he just sighed. Sherlock ran through the catalogue of items he knew were currently in the fridge. Top shelf: four human brains, lined up neatly according to age, youngest to oldest. Second shelf: quart of milk; bowl of apples; jar of index fingers; five heads of cabbage, for practice with his sword. Bottom shelf: sliced cheese, carton of eggs, left-over beans still in the saucepan; tray containing a dissected tongue. Nothing to giggle about, there. But Sherlock had to admit that giggling was an improved response over the uninhibited shrieking of a former lady friend of John’s, who had gone looking for cream and found a creamer full of clotting blood instead. Inappropriate reaction versus over-reaction. Mary wins this one.

Mary was, in fact, vastly superior to most of the humans Sherlock had to deal with. She paid attention to him, for one thing. She knew how to listen. She didn’t frighten easily, either. And most of the time, she was not an idiot. Sherlock decided to stop pretending to sleep and go see what she wanted.

She turned to smile at him as he walked into the kitchen. “Good morning, Sunshine,” she greeted him cheerfully. 

“What are you doing?” Sherlock asked impatiently. He disliked cheerfulness in the morning.

“I’m cooking your breakfast,” Mary returned brightly.

Long-suffering Sherlock sighed. “I don’t eat breakfast.” 

“Then I’m cooking my own breakfast. You may sit at the table watch me eat it if you like.”

He knew he shouldn’t be encouraging such outrageously unreasonable behavior, but he sat at the table anyway. “I see congratulations are in order,” he intoned dismally.

She ignored his tone and waved her hand at him, showing off the engagement ring. “Isn’t it lovely? It was John’s grandmother’s. I love antique jewelry,” she said, in a perfectly normal voice as if the world hadn’t just completely changed. Sherlock remained resolutely silent. 

“John was called in this morning. Someone on shift got sick and had to go home, and it was John’s turn to fill in,” she continued, as if she thought Sherlock might not have worked all this out himself within the first few seconds of her arrival. Insulting! However. . . .

“This doesn’t make you angry?” he asked, curious. Many of John’s former lady friends had argued with him over his work hours, as if he could actually do anything about it.

“Why should it? He’s a doctor. So am I. Doctors keep odd hours. Next time, it might be my turn to spoil our day off by having to go in to work. It’s all part of the job.” Mary set a plate in front of Sherlock and one for herself on the table then poured them each a cup of tea. Sherlock had not had an omelet in years. John was a good cook, but he couldn’t make an omelet to save his life. It smelled delicious. Sherlock frowned.

“We talked all night last night,” Mary informed him. “We made a lot of plans. I have money of my own, you know, and with that and my job, and John’s pension, we should be able to get by just fine if John quits his job at the clinic and starts working full time with you.”

Sherlock stared at her in surprise. He had not expected this at all. In his experience, lovers tended to be selfish, demanding all their needs be met by their mates. Here was Mary, generously offering to give John this gift of freedom to pursue the job he loved by freeing him from one he only tolerated. 

“This is something you’d be willing to do?” he asked. 

Mary nodded. “I enjoy working at the clinic. It won’t be a hardship for me at all. But John feels like he’s wasting his time there. And I agree with him—I’ve seen you two work together, and you do things that no one else can do. It’s important work, and if I can do my part to help by making it possible for John to work with you full time, then it’s the least I can do.”

Sherlock tried a bite of his omelet. It tasted as good as it smelled. 

“Tell me about what you were working on last night,” Mary encouraged him, and he began to describe his experiments in great detail. Mary’s eyes, he noticed, did not glaze over; nor did she twitch or shift about impatiently as so many people did. She even asked clarifying questions and occasionally made an intelligent comment as well. When he had finished talking, he noticed that he had also finished his breakfast, and felt pleasantly filled and warm.

Mary began to clear up, and Sherlock sat back and watched her wash the dishes. He was perceiving things in a new way. Perhaps he was not losing a Watson, but gaining one instead. He could have a full-time Watson at his disposal, with one to spare when she wasn’t working at the clinic. Statistically, he could accomplish so much more with even one extra, part-time Watson.

This was going to be interesting.


	2. Show Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Mary Morstan and Mycroft Holmes play a game of Poker, and Mycroft shows his hand. How Mycroft vets John's fiancee and is vetted in return.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The lovely Ennui Enigma challenged me to write a story in which Mycroft is asked to show Mary his left hand, just as Mycroft had asked John to show his.

“Subject is leaving the flat.” 

“Pick her up and bring her in,” he intoned calmly into his intercom. He left his office suite and walked down the hall to a room filled with monitors—his own private viewing area. The chief technician at the main control board looked up as he entered the room. “Baker Street,” said Mycroft Holmes. Instantly a view of Baker Street from the CCTV cameras in front of his brother’s flat appeared on the nearest monitor. And there she was, the latest subject of his scrutiny, leaving 221B and walking towards the tube station.

Mary Morstan had been on his radar screen for six months now. A background check had shown her to be an exceptional young woman, well-educated, no living family, with no red flags to make her a threat. Mycroft had thus far left her alone. After all, if he had personally interviewed every one of Dr. Watson’s female companions since he’d moved in with Sherlock, Mycroft would have had little time left to spend running the government. 

This subject was different. She had lasted six months, for one thing. Video of her interactions with Sherlock had proved interesting, also—she seemed to have established a rapport with his brother which few people had ever managed to do. And now, the dénouement: it had come to Mycroft’s attention that John Watson had proposed to the subject last night. It was time to meet Mary Morstan in person.

He watched her notice the limo as it pulled up alongside her. She slowed down, watching it warily, and the driver spoke to her out of the window. Stopping, she pulled out her mobile and quickly sent off a text before climbing obligingly into the back of the black vehicle. “Find out who that text went to and what it says,” Mycroft demanded. It took a few seconds; then the number appeared on one of the screens. He did not need to ask whose it was: he had called it himself hundreds of times over the past two years. The subject’s text read, “Limo’s here.” The reply from John Watson was, apart from the more colorful profanities: “Tell him to piss off. And say hi to Anthea.”

“Switch to the interior camera,” Mycroft snapped. He could now see the subject, reading her text from John and laughing silently.

She turned to Mycroft’s PA and said cheerfully, “You must be Anthea.”

“Occasionally,” Anthea smiled enigmatically, keeping her eyes on her blackberry.

“You’re just as John described,” Mary remarked.

“Sorry, John?” Anthea asked lightly. Mycroft shook his head. That was a mistake. Mary would never believe that Anthea did not remember John Watson. Now the subject was scrutinizing his PA with great care. 

“You know. The lovely blonde soldier who told Mycroft Holmes where to get off.”

Anthea’s face and hands did not admit to any emotional response to this statement, but it is not possible to control one’s blush response. Mary’s smile was slightly wicked. “Good luck with that crush,” she said.

“I’ve seen enough,” Mycroft snorted. The subject had the advantage, of course, of being warned by both John and Sherlock as to how to deal with the British Government. He should have discussed this encounter more thoroughly with his PA. The subject was apparently not only intelligent but also highly observant. No wonder she got along so well with Sherlock; and she was obviously a perfect match for John. “Have you found any footage revealing her left hand since this morning?”

“No, sir, she walks with her hands in her pockets, unless she’s using her phone. But then the phone itself prevents a clear view.”

“Oh, well. It doesn’t really matter.” Mycroft stalked out to order preparations for the subject’s arrival.

When he returned, the tech informed him that the subject had sent another text, this one to Sherlock’s mobile. “Put it on a screen,” Mycroft sighed.

“Big brother has kidnapped me,” her message read. The reply from Sherlock was: “My condolences. Deny everything.”

Mycroft shook his head. “That’s meaningless. It’s for my benefit, and not to be taken seriously. What was her reaction?”

“She seemed quite amused, sir,” the tech admitted. 

A few minutes later, an aide arrived to inform Mycroft that the subject had been placed in the receiving area and served tea. Mycroft let her sit alone for a few minutes, knowing that his opulent, richly-appointed receiving room tended to overawe most visitors. When he finally deigned to join his guest, she was indeed looking about her, appreciating the wealth and power this room represented. Her teacup and saucer were in her left hand, effectively hiding it from view.

“Miss Morstan,” he greeted her grandly, his most diplomatic smile on his lips.

“Mr. Holmes,” she returned brightly. She offered her right hand, and he took it graciously, bowing slightly.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you at last.” This was the beginning of an elaborate game of poker.

“I’m sure it is,” she countered pleasantly. “However, I’ve got a phone. It would have been, perhaps, more beneficial to phone for an appointment at a mutually convenient time. On my phone.”

Mycroft’s lips remained in a tolerant smile. “I apologize for my manner of acquiring your cooperation in this meeting. Please believe me that it was necessary to be expedient. But shall we speak of more pleasant matters? For example, may I congratulate you on your engagement to Dr. Watson?”

The subject set down her teacup and sat back, crossing her arms over her chest. Her cheerful demeanor disappeared. “No, you may not,” she said frostily.

Mycroft did not allow his expression to change, but he was impressed with the force of her character. “I beg your pardon?”

Mary rose from her seat and held up her left hand for his inspection. “I believe you can see from my left hand that such a sentiment would be inappropriate,” she said coolly.

“I see.” Mycroft would not back down. “May I ask when the formal announcement will be made so I may offer my congratulations when it becomes appropriate?”

“A better question would be: why do you believe I am engaged to John Watson? Or to anyone, for that matter?” she demanded loftily.

“Please, be seated young lady,” Mycroft said smoothly. She sat, this time on the very edge of the chair, and waited. “Dr. Watson was seen two days ago at his bank, retrieving his grandmother’s ring from his safety deposit box. Yesterday evening, he was seen at the door of your flat dressed in his best suit, carrying a bouquet of roses. A conclusion was drawn accordingly.”

“I’m disappointed, Mr. Holmes. You’re typically male, aren’t you? I would have thought you’d be above all that. You think just because a man waves a ring in front of a girl, that she must automatically swoon into his arms and say ‘yes’.” 

Mycroft countered this move swiftly. “You must admit, Miss Morstan, that your recent association with the doctor indicates that such an alliance between you would not be unexpected.”

The subject sighed deeply, as if vexed to her very soul. “Your left hand, Mr. Holmes, please.”

“I beg your pardon.”

“Beg all you like. I showed you mine; now show me yours.”

Bemused, Mycroft held up his left hand obligingly. He couldn’t help but like this intriguing young woman. She was . . . interesting.

“So, I see you are unmarried. I suppose you may be excused for believing a woman must behave as a man might expect.” 

Mycroft could see that it would be useless for him to continue in this line of inquiry. He changed tactics. “What is your relationship to Sherlock Holmes?”

She held up her left hand again, chuckling. “Not his fiancée.”

He shook his head impatiently. “Of course not. But as his brother, I am naturally concerned about him. After spending all last night with John, you spent all this morning with Sherlock.”

“And now, apparently, I am spending all this afternoon with YOU. I AM a busy girl. What might I get up to next?” Mary laughed mischievously. “If you are suggesting that I threw John over for his best friend, you must think I’m very wicked indeed.”

Mycroft suddenly realized he had made a tactical error. He had referred to John by his first name, showing an empathy with him that suggested friendship; or at the very least, an alliance between them born of common purpose. He realized then that this was not just an error but an actual feeling. He respected John Watson. More, he LIKED the man. Somewhere deep in the recesses of his being, Mycroft had been sentimentally rooting for John to win the hand of this delightful woman and was disappointed for his . . . friend. Still, he must rise above useless emotionalism and get to the point.

“Miss Morstan, it is imperative that you understand this. My brother and John Watson have a working relationship that must not be interfered with. It would be most regrettable if anything should happen to cause a rift between them.” His tone left no question. This was a clear threat.

The subject—but no longer just a subject to Mycroft: a fascinating human being—leaned forward in her chair and looked him in the eye. “I know. I absolutely agree with you.”

Mycroft was speechless.

Mary sat back again and smiled gently. “You have had me thoroughly investigated, I assume. If so, you will have found that I never lie; although I am not above deceit.”

Mycroft smiled as well—his REAL smile. The one few human beings had ever witnessed. “You’ve never said that you’re NOT engaged to John Watson.”

She pulled the ring from her pocket and placed it on her left hand. “He proposed last night, as you guessed he would, and I accepted. We agreed to formally announce our engagement next week at his birthday party—in the meantime, we meant to keep it dark. Only John and I, Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson were to know about it. However, John guessed you would meddle. And Sherlock gave me the perfect idea to punish you for meddling.”

“Deny everything.” Mycroft couldn’t help but laugh aloud.

“I’m done playing games, Mr. Holmes. I like you. And I know you have Sherlock’s best interests at heart. You needn’t worry, I assure you, because John and I also have his best interests at heart. He is as important to us as he is to you. I will have mercy on you, because you obviously love your brother, and let you know our plans. We intend to pool our resources, allowing John to quit his job at the clinic and work with Sherlock full-time. I hope this reassures you as to our intentions.”

“Thank you for being so forthcoming,” Mycroft said, feeling more relieved than he wanted to admit. “May I once again offer my most sincere congratulations, Miss Morstan? Or may I call you Mary?”

“Please do, Mycroft. We are something nearly like in-laws now, I suppose. Shall we call a truce and be friends?”

“I would be delighted, my dear,” said Mycroft.


	3. Family Dynamics

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which John, Mary, and Sherlock begin to forge a family.

He heard her footsteps mounting the stairs just as he shoved the casserole dish into the oven. Perfect timing! He’d been engaged to be married to Mary Morstan for just two days now, but already they seemed to have settled into a pleasant haze of domestic bliss that flooded him with warmth. Sherlock had been particularly trying that day, and knowing Mary was home to inject sanity into the Baker Street flat filled him with inexplicable joy.

“Hullo, darling,” she entered the kitchen and greeted John with a kiss. “Hard day at the office?” She could read him like a map. They had talked a great deal about how their marriage would affect Sherlock and had agreed to spend as much time with the detective as they could to help their friend acclimate to the new situation. After all, when John quit his job at the clinic to work full-time with Sherlock, he would most likely actually be spending more time with his friend than he had before Mary had entered the picture. And Mary, when not at work, would be spending as much time as she could with the both of them. Reassuring Sherlock was their chief aim as they planned for their wedding day.

“He’s been particularly intractable today,” John murmured, not wanting the sharp-eared detective to overhear. “We don’t currently have a case to keep him busy, so it’s been all moaning about boredom for hours on end.”

“Poor dear,” Mary smiled, peeking into the sitting room at Sherlock, who was lying on the couch with his eyes closed, feigning coma. John wondered which of them her sympathy was directed towards. “He just wants your attention, that’s all. Oh, and look! He’s obviously got a head-ache. Look at the tension round his eyes.”

John looked and felt a bit guilty for not having noticed the signs earlier. “I suppose we’ve been arguing rather a lot today,” he admitted. 

“Whatever about?” Mary wanted to know.

John sighed. “He’s refusing to go to my birthday party, even though he knows that’s when we’re going to formally announce our engagement.”

Mary chuckled warmly. “Of course he’s refusing to go. There’ll be people there!” He huffed impatiently, and she put her arms around him affectionately. “Think of it this way: he never goes to your birthday parties. If he showed up at this one, everyone would know something was up. It would spoil the surprise announcement!”

John laughed reluctantly. “I suppose you’re right,” he acknowledged with a sigh. 

Mary kissed him again. “I know you want him there by your side, showing our friends that he approves of our decision. But he’s a bit like a cat, you know.”

John looked puzzled. “In what way?”

“Have you never had a cat?” She asked, and he shook his head. “I had one once, and every time I moved to a new flat, he would hide under the bed for several days. Then he would sneak out and sniff all the furniture. And then, he’d be fine! He just needed time to get used to the new situation. Sherlock needs time, too. So let him hide under the bed for a bit if it helps him.” She gave him a parting squeeze and then wandered into the sitting room. John’s stood just outside Sherlock’s line of sight, wondering what this amazingly understanding woman would do next.

“Hullo, Sherlock,” she said cheerfully, seating herself on the coffee table by the detective’s head. “How’s your day been?”

“John’s a tyrant,” Sherlock muttered crossly, refusing to open his eyes.

“Really?” Mary’s voice was light with amusement. “What horribly tyrannical thing has he done now?”

Sherlock huffed impatiently. “He has hidden my cigarettes. Again. He knows how bored I am! But still, he deprives me of them.”

“Hmm,” Mary said thoughtfully. “’Person who cares for the health and well-being of others.’ That’s a different definition of “tyrant” than I’ve heard before.”

“Of course you’d be on HIS side,” intoned the aggrieved detective.

Mary’s dimples deepened. “I’m on the side of breathing, my dear. You now have two doctors looking after you. You will be the world’s healthiest consulting detective.”

Sherlock deigned to open his eyes and glared at her now. “Bored!” he cried impatiently, annoyed by her amusement. 

She patted his arm soothingly. “There, there. Let’s find something to do, then. Here are today’s newspapers; I’ll read to you.”

“John read them already,” he said shortly, closing his eyes again.

“And look, under the papers are some cold cases Greg dropped by. I can read those to you.”

A hand waved the cold cases again impatiently. “I solved them all. Two’s and three’s, at best,” he grumbled. “Hardly challenging.”

“Hmm,” Mary said thoughtfully. “Another new definition of tyrant: ‘Person who sacrifices his time and possibly his eyesight to read to a bored consulting detective for hours on end in a thankless attempt to entertain him.’” She gently placed a hand on Sherlock’s forehead. “Anyway, I don’t believe you’re really bored. I think you have a nasty head-ache. Have you eaten anything today? I can’t give you pain meds on an empty stomach.”

“Not hungry,” Sherlock groused, but he opened his eyes again and looked at her with interest rather than hostility this time.

“Oh good lord, Sherlock, here’s a full bowl of Mrs. Hudson’s special chicken soup, untouched!” Mary exclaimed, retrieving the dish from underneath the coffee table. “No wonder you’re hungry!”

“It’s slimy,” Sherlock objected. “And I’m not hungry.”

Mary was completely undaunted. “Of course it’s slimy; you’ve let it sit here congealing for who knows how long. I’ll be right back.” She carried the offending bowl into the kitchen and rolled her eyes at John knowingly. Pulling a frying pan from the cupboard, she set it on the stove.

“Now wait just a minute,” John objected. “I made you dinner so you wouldn’t have to cook tonight!”

Mary paused in her search of the refrigerator to kiss him soundly. “I know! It smells heavenly! Shepherd’s pie, isn’t it? This is why I’m marrying you—you’re a wonderful cook! No one’s ever loved me enough to cook for me before!”

John, bemused, watched her melt butter in the frying pan and break eggs into a bowl. “And here I thought you were marrying me because I’m devastatingly good looking,” he suggested, matching her cheerful spirits.

“Ah, well. It’s true you’re a feast for the eyes,” Mary grinned. “But the way to this girl’s heart is through her stomach! I love shepherd’s pie! It’s my favorite! This omelet is for Sherlock. I can’t give him meds on an empty tummy, now can I? And you know he won’t eat the pie. It has carrots in it, and he won’t eat orange food.”

John sighed. “You’ll spoil him, you know,” he warned. “He’ll think he can get you to do whatever he wants.”

Mary shook her head. “I’m not spoiling him; I’m just giving him what he needs. And if he’d been spoilt a bit as a child, he might not feel the need to be so demanding now, don’t you think?” 

He watched her carry a tray into the sitting room and prod Sherlock to sit up and take a paracetamol with a full glass of water. He shook his head in astonishment as she insinuated a dinner plate onto the detective’s lap and prompted him to talk about the cold cases he’d solved that day. As she distracted him with conversation, Sherlock kept absently spearing bits of omelet into his mouth until he’d soon eaten the entire thing. It seemed Mary was determined to mother Sherlock Holmes to within an inch of his life. From what John had gathered over the years, Sherlock’s mother had been a genius in her own right and fiercely devoted to her sons. She had given her boys every advantage educationally and had encouraged them in their several areas of interests and talents. But she had been woefully ignorant of the emotional and social needs of growing boys; they had been quite neglected in that respect. Perhaps Mary’s mothering indulgence was just what the doctor ordered for Sherlock.

Mary, who had been listening intently to her friend with occasional intelligent comments, then shooed him off to bed, and soon had him tucked in with cold compresses on his aching head.

0000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000

John settled into the corner of the sofa, reclining diagonally with his feet on the coffee table, perfectly content. His planned dinner had been a success, and now with the washing-up accomplished and Sherlock quiet in his room, they could relax a bit before Mary went home. She wedged herself between him and the sofa-back, her head on his shoulder, and sighed happily.

“You make the loveliest pillow,” she told him cheerfully. “That’s why I’m marrying you, you know. To be my personal bolster.”

“Hmm,” he considered her comment seriously. “I thought you were marrying me because of my impressive intellectual prowess.”

She shook with silent laughter in his arms. “Don’t be ridiculous, darling. How can I rest my weary head against your intellect?” She twisted her head to look up at his face. “So why are you marrying me?” she inquired.

He nuzzled her hair. “I’ve always had a burning desire to be someone’s personal bolster,” he told her frankly, “but no one’s ever wanted to use me in that capacity before you came along.” They laughed together companionably, enjoying the newness of their relationship.

Then Mary sobered. “I need to tell you something, John,” she told him seriously. “I ought to have told you this when you proposed, and I’m sorry I didn’t. We talked about so many things that night and made so many plans, but this never came up.” She sat up straight and looked at him with a pensive expression. “If you change your mind about marrying me, I’ll understand.”

John was troubled. “Mary, there’s nothing you can possibly tell me that would make me change my mind about wanting to spend my life with you. What is it, love? You know you can tell me anything, don’t you?”

She drew a deep breath and said it. “I can’t have children, John. I was . . . injured . . . when I was sixteen, and the doctors said I’d never be able to conceive.”

A maelstrom of emotion surged through John’s being as he absorbed this information. He’d long been aware that Mary must have been abused as a child, emotionally and possibly physically. But now he realized she had also been sexually assaulted with such violence that it left permanent physical and psychological damage. Impotent rage against her assailant was rivalled in his mind only by his admiration for her courage and strength in dealing with her past so gracefully. He was besieged with questions that he longed to ask her about her ordeal. But she did not need him to interrogate her. She needed him to reassure her. He pushed his own burning need to know aside; she would tell him about her past when she was ready to speak of it. It was not for him to intrude upon her privacy. It was his privilege now to give her what she really needed.

“I’ll understand if having a family is important to you,” Mary was saying, misinterpreting his silent struggle. “It’s okay if you decide you don’t want me after all. . . .”

“There’s nothing on this earth more important to me than you,” John interrupted gently, pulling her back into his embrace. “Nothing. And it is absolutely impossible for me to stop wanting you. I love you entirely and completely, no matter what.”

She sighed and relaxed against him. “I love you so much. You’re absolutely perfect, do you know that? I can’t imagine how I got so lucky.”

Their passionate kiss was interrupted by an insistent clanging noise. John looked at Mary in astonishment. “I can’t believe you gave him a bell!” he complained. “We don’t need to have children of our own, do we? We have a giant toddler already.”

She shrugged apologetically, dimples showing. “Shouting for us if he needed us would have hurt his poor head,” she explained. “I’ll take care of it. He probably just needs a new cold compress.” She climbed over him to hurry into Sherlock’s bedroom.

John sighed in resignation, but a new understanding now impressed itself upon him. Mary’s maternal attitude towards Sherlock filled subconscious needs in both of them. He was now doubly grateful that fate had brought the three of them together. Because having a family actually was important to him, and it seemed they had now formed a strange little family of their own.


End file.
